


Things about Him

by BichoBolita



Category: Naruto
Genre: Boys In Love, Cute, Fluff, Gay, Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:08:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BichoBolita/pseuds/BichoBolita
Summary: There were plenty of things to love about Gaara. There's things that everyone knows, but there's also the things that are exclusive for him.Or: Reiji is Gay and could go on and on about his man all day.
Relationships: Gaara (Naruto)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 34





	Things about Him

**Author's Note:**

> Reiji is an OC of mine. He's Very Gay and Very In Love and thats pretty much what this is about lmao

There were plenty of things to love about Gaara. He was strong, and smart, responsible and diligent. He was quiet and mysterious, and god, he was gorgeous. With his red hair, and those light teal green eyes he felt he could get lost in forever, surrounded by those deepened eyebags the Shukaku gave him. He pulled it off, somehow, even without eyebrows, Gaara was probably the prettiest man he has ever laid eyes upon. His face was soft, and rounded, and he had the intense urge to cup it between his hands and kiss him senseless. Gaara rarely smiled, but every time he did, he felt like he could just melt. 

But those were things everyone knew about Gaara. Yes, they were great reasons, and they were the reasons Gaara had a whole fan club that would scream at his sight. And there were less known facts that would probably drive them wild, for example, the fact that Gaara was ripped. He didn’t look like it, under all those clothes, but he was. Gaara kept a strict training regime and he had the body to prove it. He would know, as his doctor. 

There was also the fact Gaara wore a fishnet crop top under that red coat. And, you know, it may not sound important, but he remembers the first time he saw him like that, and he remembers choking on his own spit at the sight. It was stupid, but Gaara made him stupid. It wasn’t his fault. 

And, even lesser known, was the secret his coat tail, skirts and loose pants would hide. Gaara did, in fact, have a fantastic ass. It was the definition of a bubble butt. There were very rare occasions in which Gaara would wear anything that actually showed it, but it didn’t matter, because he got to stare at it all he wanted. He got to stare at his ass, and his perfectly toned legs, and his back, and his chest, and his face, and everything he wanted, because he was surely the luckiest man on earth.

Gaara had only one scar in his entire body. Which, for a shinobi, was actually amazing. Protected by the sand, Gaara’s skin was soft and unscarred below it, perfectly smooth, unlike his own, splattered with scars in his hands, his back, his chest, and all over. No, Gaara’s skin was clean and beautiful, only interrupted in his chest, sided to the left, right below his shoulder, where it looked like he had been hit straight up by a lightning bolt. 

But there were also things about Gaara that only he knew. There were things about Gaara that belonged to him, and nobody else. Like the way he looked in the morning, messy hair and half lidded eyes, nesting between his arms, while sunlight made its way onto his body, filtering through the curtains. 

Or the way his skin felt under his hands, under his lips, when there was no one else around. Gaara didn’t even have body hair. Not that he himself was a bear, particularly, and considering his blonde hair hid away against his tan skin, he didn’t really look much hairy either. But Gaara was completely soft, and he loved running his hands all over his exposed skin, when there were no clothes, nor sand in the way. He could kiss him all over, for hours on end, his legs, his back, his chest, his scar. His neck, his cheeks, his lips. The love mark on his forehead. There were a lot of places he liked to kiss him. 

The way Gaara looked after he got kissed was also one of those precious things that belonged to him only. Slightly blushing, green eyes on his own, it made him want to kiss him more. And more. And the way Gaara looked after they got too carried away, naked, sweating, gasping for air, flushed red, lips parted as he caught his breath and snuggled closer to him, was also one of those blessed sights that were his only. The way he moaned, gasped, panted for air. The way his legs would twitch and his toes would curl, and the way he’d grip the sheets so hard he has teared them apart a couple times, and the way he’d dig his nails into his back, gripping, leaving bright red marks against his skin, and the way he’d throw his head back and expose his neck for him to kiss, and suck, and bite. And the way he’d press closer to him, and call his name, and pull him in for desperate, breathless kisses, it all belonged to him. 

There was also the way he looked when he told him he loves him. He’d look up at him, everytime, and he’d smile ever so softly, and his cheeks would taint pink, and his heartbeat would spike up. He knew that because he did the experiment once, of saying it while he had the chance to be resting against his chest, and listen. Feeling Gaara’s heart speed up upon being told he loved him made his own heart almost burst out of his chest. 

He remembers the first time he told Gaara he loved him. He remembers how his eyes opened wide and he went silent, looking up at him, blinking in an owlish manner. Big, beautiful, teal green eyes. He remembers how Gaara went “What?” so he repeated. And then he went “Me?” and he said yes, you, who else? And then Gaara started crying and freaked him out. 

Turns out Gaara was way more emotional than he let on. He was also easier to overwhelm than he expected. But it was okay, because those were happy tears, because Gaara was happy to hear he was loved. He had started apologizing before Gaara cut him off and told him not to, that it wasn’t that, and then he hugged him, and hid his face against his shoulder. And he cradled him and ran his fingers through his hair, and he said it again, that he loved him. And Gaara choked back a sob and said he loved him, too. And now he kinda felt like crying as well. 

Gaara didn’t cry when he told him he loved him anymore, but he seemed to brighten up every single time. He had the softest, prettiest smile on earth, and he’d do anything for that smile. Gaara didn’t usually smile much, but he smiled at him, and he felt so lucky, so blessed every time he did. Gaara would smile whenever he’d see him, and his heart would flutter. And when he laughed it was even better, because, much like the rest of him, his voice was also a blessing, and even if he didn’t speak much, he loved the sound of it. It was soothing, and calm, most of the time. He had to admit, Gaara’s stern tone was more than intimidating, and his yelling was terrifying, but that’s not what he usually sounded like. He was usually calm and collected, which was good enough, but he loved hearing Gaara’s voice when they were alone, intimate and soft. When he was vulnerable, when he was happy, when he was relaxed, Gaara sounded beautifully, and he could close his eyes and just listen to him for the rest of his life. Hearing him say he loved him back was one of the best thing he’d ever hear. He’d never get tired of hearing it. 

Gaara had a hard time sleeping, too. Even without the Shukaku, he was just not used to it, and it was more often than not where he’d spend nights awake. Sometimes, he’d wake up in the middle of the night to an empty bed, and he’d get up to go drag Gaara back to it from the balcony. Because, like it or not, he needed to sleep. 

Sometimes he couldn’t, though. Sometimes he’d just lay awake next to him, staring at the ceiling, and he’d wake up and catch Gaara wide awake, and he’d try to kiss and caress him into sleep. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes Gaara would fall asleep and would sleep peacefully until the morning sun came up to bother them through the curtains. 

Some other times, Gaara would wake up abruptly, drenched in sweat and with panic in his eyes, chest rising and falling so fast as he tried to catch his breath. And he’d wake up, too, and he’d put his hands on his shoulders, and tell him it’s okay, he’s home, nothing happened, and he’d wait for Gaara to get a grip from reality before pulling him into his arms, and letting him sink into his embrace. He’d trace soft circles against his skin, and Gaara would hide from the world in his arms, and he’d keep him there, as if he could protect him. Because Gaara needed that, too. He protected everyone, but he needed someone to protect him, even if it wasn’t against an enemy but against the ghosts of his past. 

And he was happy to do it, because he loved him, and because Gaara would do the same for him. When it happened to him, Gaara would be quick to soothe him, to hold his arms firmly and stare into his eyes, and reassure him that everything is fine. And he’d let him sink in his arms too, placing soft kisses against his forehead, playing with his hair. And he’d talk to him, ever so softly, lulling him back to sleep. He felt safe in his arms. And Gaara felt safe in his own, too, and that made him happy. 

Another thing he liked about Gaara is that he was easy to pick up. Lord Kazekage was a good few inches smaller than him, and he would be lying if he said he didn’t love lifting him off the ground to kiss him. And Gaara seemed to like it, too, by the way he smiled and let out a small chuckle every time. He must admit the first times he did it Gaara looked bewildered to be picked up like that, but he didn’t complain, so he kept on doing it. 

Granted, Gaara could pick him up too, and with ease. Gaara was nowhere near weak. Even if he was smaller than him, Gaara could probably destroy him without even using any ninjutsu. It was rare to see him fight, as he relied mostly on his sand for it, but he had had the privilege to see him train his taijutsu a few times, and damn, he could probably kill a man barehanded. Unlike him, Gaara was a force to be reckoned with, ninjutsu or not. Somehow, the knowledge that he could utterly destroy him if he wished to only made him better. Of course, Gaara would never. Because as powerful and terrifying as he is, Gaara is a big softie, too. He knew that better than anyone. Gaara would never hurt him, no matter if he glared, or if he was angry, or frustrated. He was careful, and soft. He was careful with everyone around him. Not everyone felt as comfortable with him, though, and they had good reason. Not everyone could bear his glare without at least flinching, because not everyone felt so sure about their safety. But he did, because he knew how Gaara was, and he knew he’d never hurt him. 

That’s one of the things that drove them closer in the first place, that he wasn’t scared of him. Gaara was so used to being feared, his complete and unconditional trust on him baffled him at first. But how could he not trust him? Gaara had saved his life time and time again, and countless others, because he was their Kazekage, and he was a protector. And he felt safe around him, in a way he had never felt before. Not really because he was Kazekage, but because he was Gaara. 

He protected Gaara too, in his own way. Maybe he’d never be able to physically defend him, but he was the one who would drag him to sleep before he passed out of exhaustion over his desk, and the one that would make sure he ate correctly, and the one who’d make sure he got enough rest and took his medicine whenever he was sick. He was the one who’d tend his very rare wounds, if he ever got one. Gaara was stubborn, and he refused to follow doctor’s orders. That’s how they had met, him being a medical intern just trying to get the Kazekage to take his damned medicine. But now the tables had turned, now he was allowed to nag him, so Gaara had to do what he said and deal with it. 

But that was okay, because Gaara liked to deal with him, even if he’d get stubborn about being Big Strong Shinobi Who Needs No Sleep and sometimes he’d have to physically restrain the Kazekage from getting up with a raging fever to go oversee the village. Because he was like that sometimes, stubborn and determined. And caring. Because he cared, and he wanted to protect his village, and he wanted to be okay for his people. Because he was just great like that, and he couldn’t be more in love with him, even when he wholeheartedly believed the idea of getting up when your forehead burnt hotter than the sun outside was really stupid. 

Gaara looked pretty when he was focused. Whenever he was caught up in paperwork, or in the middle of a meeting, with a stern look on his face. Or when something was frustrating, the way he’d frown slightly, furrowing his brows. No one ever dared to point it out, but Gaara pouted when he was frustrated. And it was the cutest thing in the world. It made him want to kiss his frustration away. Sometimes, he must admit, he annoyed him on purpose, just to see him pout. 

There are things about Gaara he still doesn’t comprehend fully, like the pained melancholy in his voice when he talks about his siblings, his village, the desert. Or the way he’d stare at the void at night, unable to sleep. The way he’d mumble under his breath like he was talking to someone when he was all alone. But he didn’t need to understand everything about him to love him. 

He had an idea of the things that plagued Gaara at night, of course he did, because everyone knew about the demon of the desert. Gaara knew better than anyone. And even though it has been years, he knew Gaara has yet to forgive himself for it, even if everyone else has already forgiven him. Sometimes, Gaara would startle himself, invaded by memories, and the pained expression in his eyes grew a pit in his stomach, because Gaara would probably never stop feeling guilty about it. But Gaara didn’t talk much about it, and he didn’t want to force him. He’d find out, whenever Gaara was ready to tell. 

Gaara didn’t celebrate his birthday. For him, it was more the anniversary of his mother’s death more than the celebration of his birth. He wondered if Gaara’s birthday was ever celebrated as child, but he was pretty sure the answer was no. It took him a while to understand how Gaara was genuinely not comfortable with the concept, and it even saddened him, as everyone else celebrated their birthdays happily, while he sank in melancholy of missing memories of a mother he didn’t get to meet. 

Gaara’s feelings towards his mother were very complicated, and he tried not to press the issue. He had talked very little about it, meekly, with a pained voice that made his heart crumble. He knew Gaara yearned for his mother, and there was nothing he could do for him other than hold him close and tell him that he was sure his mother would be proud of the man he had become—any mother would. It seemed to cheer him up, even if just a little bit. Maybe some day, Gaara would be ready to share his feelings with him, and he’d be ready to listen.

Gaara was an expert in keeping his cool. But he knew he was easy to overwhelm, and as a Kazekage, there were so many people who wanted to talk to him, to meet him, and to be with him. And sometimes, it was too much for him. It has happened a couple times, that Lord Kazekage would vanish from a gathering because he needed some peace. But he didn’t overwhelm Gaara, he liked to be with him, and that made him happy. 

Sometimes, Gaara would escape the world on a rooftop, late at night, staring at the moon, with the wind and the chill night air as his company. And sometimes he’d join him, too, and he wouldn’t speak. He’d sit next to him in silence, and Gaara would scoot closer to him and lay his head on his shoulder, and he would lay his own head on top of his. And they’d intertwine their fingers and stare at the moon, in silence, together. He had never done this before he met Gaara, but he had to admit it was quite relaxing. It had been in a rooftop, late at night, with the moon as a witness, where they had had their first kiss. He remembers holding Gaara’s hand, and telling him that he trusted him, and he remembers cupping his pretty face with his other hand. He remembers the stark contrast of Gaara’s pale skin against his own. He remembers the look in his eyes as he leaned in, and he remembers how relieved he was when he didn’t pull away. He also remembers how cute Gaara looked flushing red, and he remembers how he couldn’t help but kiss him again, and again, and again.

Gaara also had some killer puppy eyes. Few people knew this, but Gaara could legitimately get away with anything when he wanted to. He looked like a sad, pleading baby panda, and one has to be heartless to say no to a baby panda. Gaara seemed completely unaware of the kind of power those big green eyes of him held, but he knew it wasn’t just him, as both his brother and sister were unable to say “no” to him. But that was also okay, because he’d do anything for him, baby panda eyes or not. And Gaara wasn’t one to ask for much, most of the time all he wanted was to spend time with his family or with him, or both. And he was happy to oblige. He could spend the rest of his life right next to him if so he wanted to. 

Gaara kept houseplants. He had known before that the Kazekage liked to frequent the greenhouse, but he also kept plants in his office, and in his bedroom, of which he took care personally. It came as a surprise to him the first time he saw them, but he quickly learnt Gaara liked his plants a lot. It’s therapeutic, he said, it keeps him busy and helps him ground himself. It reminds him of Konoha, he had explained, that’s where they came from. Most of those plants had names. He made a point to learn all of them. 

Gaara loved the desert, though. His fixation on plants didn’t take that away. More often than not, Gaara would wander outside the village, into the desert, walking around dunes and a sea of never ending sand. He felt at ease there, in his element. He had followed Gaara a couple times before, out to the desert, and there was nowhere else where Gaara looked so genuinely comfortable, at ease. He was in touch with the sand, and he belonged there, like a magnificent mythical creature, one with the desert. The sand molded at his step, and he played around with it, with a fond look that would lose itself in the horizon, and he could do nothing other than stare in awe as Gaara let himself loose.

It was mostly him who would seek Gaara out. Not that Gaara didn’t like cuddling, or wasn’t affectionate, he was just not used to be the one to ask for affection. It took him a while to start doing it, to hold his hand first, to lean into him, to look for a hug. And it melted his heart completely. He noticed the first few times, how Gaara would tentatively get closer to him, and how his eyes would avoid his own, and he could see the hint of fear in them, scared of rejection, of being shunned away. But he never was, of course he wasn’t, because he’d never be able to reject him. So when Gaara would get closer to him, shy, nervous, he’d get the biggest smile, and he’d hold his hand back with confidence, or wrap his arm around him, bring him closer, tighter. And Gaara would smile, relieved, and settle comfortably against him, looking up at him, pleased, and he’d flip his entire world upside down every single time.

He was more confident now, seeking him out. He didn’t look shy or nervous, he didn’t look scared that he’d be rejected, because he has learnt that he loved him. Gaara’s advances were still soft, and small, and warm, and it was him the one who’d end up pulling him closer, and Gaara would smile like that, and he’d smile back, because he couldn’t help it, because he was so in love with him. 

Gaara had cold hands. He had no idea why, but he supposed the protective sand had something to do about it. When the temperature dropped outside, Gaara’s hands would get ice cold, and he’d nag him into wearing gloves he’d take off as soon as he was gone. Sometimes, he’d cup Gaara’s hands between his own to warm them, and then he’d get distracted kissing them. His hands were soft, too, result of the sand armor constantly protecting his skin. It was quite the contrast against his own, scarred, calloused hands of a shinobi. A normal one, at least, because Gaara was a hundred times the shinobi he’d ever be, but he was a special case. 

Gaara was innocent in a particular way, regarding feelings. They confused him, and he needed time to process things, and he was more than happy to be patient for him. It was strange, but adorable, Gaara was very easy to fluster if he put his mind to it. It was a side of him very few people got to see, as Gaara was particularly good to hide his emotions behind a blank face. But he didn’t try to keep a blank face around him anymore, he stopped trying long ago, and he just lets himself be, and he loves that, even if Gaara tends to not be that expressive. Every smile, every frown, every pout, every confused look, he loved seeing all of those.

Gaara was beautiful even when he slept. Specially when he slept next to him, wrapped in his arms. Gaara tended to nuzzle closer to him in his sleep, seeking contact, and his heart would completely melt at it. He looked peaceful, although he tended to curl up into a ball. That was also very cute, it made him want to hold him forever.

And it was because of this, and a million reasons more, that he couldn’t help but brush the hair out of his face, even while his eyes were closed and his breathing was steady, and he was pretty much asleep already, and he probably should not bother him, because it took him forever to fall asleep. 

But he had to. 

“Gaara” He called, softly, barely a whisper. 

“Mmm?” 

“I love you.” 

And the soft smile appeared without fail, even if he didn’t bother to open his eyes, snuggling closer to him. 

“I love you too.”

He pressed a soft kiss against the love mark on his forehead, and lightly squeezed him against him, and Gaara squeezed back. And then, he closed his eyes, and gave in to the sleep, with Gaara resting in his arms, knowing tomorrow he’d get to see him again, with the morning sun sneaking past the curtains and reflecting on his skin.


End file.
